“Go to him, please. Tell him that I'm here,” she bade him, and then turned away and sat waiting upon a clump of heather. She sat, as not daring to look up, until she heard his soft tread on the turf. Then she lifted to him her wet and rueful eyes.
His long strides brought him close in a second. He was changed. Leaner, browner, older than she had known him. And he wore a strange Eastern garment, a hooded white robe, short-sleeved and buttonless, made of coarse woollen cloth. He had thrown the hood back, and it sat upon his shoulders like a huge rolling collar. Yes, he was changed; there was mystery upon him, which sat broodingly on his brows. But his eyes were the same—bright as a bird's, frosty-kind as a spring morning which stings while it kisses you. “Queen Mab!” he said. “You!” and held out both his hands. It was evident that neither of them could speak. She rose; but there was no touching of the hands.
“And Peachblossom, attendant sprite,” cried the resourceful Chevenix, following him up. “Don't forget him.”
“Puck, I think,” said Senhouse. “Robin Goodfellow.” He had recovered himself in that breathing-space. “How splendid of you both. Come and see my ship. I'm in moorings now, you know. I've cut piracy.”
“And preach to the hares,” said Chevenix. “We saw you at it. What does his lordship say?”
“His lordship, who, in spite of that, is an excellent man, likes it. His lordship was pleased to catch me, as you did, at it, and to suggest that he should bring out a party of her ladyship's friend to see me perform. I told him that I was his hireling, no doubt, but that my friends here were amateurs who didn't care to say their prayers in public. His lordship begged pardon, and I bet you he's a gentleman. Nearly everybody is, when you come to know him.”
Chevenix revelled in him. “Still the complete moralist, old Jack!” he cheered. “I'll back you for a bushel of nuts to have it out with Charon as you ferry across. And here, for want of us, you turn to the hares! Sancie, you and I must get season tickets to Sarum, or he'll forget his tongue.”
Sanchia, overcome by shyness, had nothing to do with this brisk interchange. She walked between the contestants like a child out with her betters. Senhouse led them down the scarped side of a hill into his own valley; rounding a bluff, they suddenly came upon his terraces and creeper-covered hut. The place was a blaze of field flowers; each terrace a thick carpet of colour. In front of them the valley wound softly to the south, and melted into the folds of the hills; to the right, upon a wooded slope, in glades between the trees, goats were at pasture.
“Goats! Robinson Crusoe!” Chevenix pointed them out. “Dic mihi, Damoeta, cuium pecus? an Meliboei? Are they yours, Senhouse?”
“I drink them, and make cheese. I learned how to do it at Udine ages ago. You shall have some.”